


Sticky Fingers

by pokey_jr



Series: The Yeehaw Chronicles [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: F/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 23:17:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: People come and go around you, all too drunk to notice or care about the minor robbery taking place.This is a risk, you know. Picking pockets always is, but this man, in particular, carries with him some wildness, and a willingness to do violence which weathers his even features and sets his mouth in a permanent scowl.





	Sticky Fingers

He catches your eye the moment he steps into the saloon. He shouldn’t. There’s not much unusual about him. Rough around the edges, a few days’ beard growth. Spurs jingle with each thunking step of his boots on the plank floor. Efficient, practical, and opportunistic.

He has the look of an outlaw, though he’d likely object to the classification.

Outlaw, huh? Prove it.

Handsome, too. You bat your eyelashes at him as he approaches the counter and tosses a quarter to the barman.

“Whiskey.”

He ignores your flirtation. Good. That’ll make robbing him easier. He may be dirty and grizzled, but that doesn’t mean his pockets are empty.

You pinch your cheeks to give them some rouge, then sidle up to him, leaning against the bar just so.

It takes him an assessing glance, which he lets slide from your face down to your tits, to conclude: “If you cost more than this whiskey, I ain’t interested.”

“I’m not for sale, mister.”

His eyes drop to your cleavage again, and you don’t miss the flash of lust there. He slugs the rest of his drink, and before he can order another one himself, you intervene, one delicate hand on his forearm. “Let me buy you the next one.”

He frowns, clearly suspicious, but accepts. Fresh drink in hand, he settles, a little more relaxed. Your free hand, the one not caressing his arm, wanders down to his satchel, as casual as can be and out of sight. You chatter, giving him a fake name, and coaxing one from him.

“And what is it you do, Mr. Arthur Morgan. What’s your profession?” You trail your fingers up and touch his biceps lightly. He quirks an eyebrow at you. As if you didn’t know the moment he walked in here.

“What do _you_ think, miss?”

“Clergyman,” you reply on beat.

He snorts and shakes his head, giving you a wry smile before draining his glass. You buy him another. Almost there. You have his satchel unfastened, but can’t feel any money clips. This really isn’t the best way to do this, and it usually doesn’t take so long. He’s charming, though, and in the heady, thick air of the saloon it’s easy to picture him leading you to a room upstairs and putting you on your back.

People come and go around you, all too drunk to notice or care about the minor robbery taking place.

This is a risk, you know. Picking pockets always is, but this man, in particular, carries with him some wildness, and a willingness to do violence which weathers his even features and sets his mouth in a permanent scowl.

It would be preferable to kiss him. You need the money, and the thrill of stealing it is more fun than any other manner, but you pout and smile at him, entertaining lewd fantasies all the same.

Your hand in the satchel touches something that feels like cash. Yes. You forget yourself, attention pulled in two directions, and at the moment Mr. Arthur Morgan is a more interesting prospect, and you riffle the bills.

He feels it then, and looks down.

A sudden rage takes hold of him. His large calloused hand snatches your wrist in a crushing grip, makes it feel like the bones are grinding together.

In one swift movement, he draws a pistol and pulls you close to him. The barrel jams into your ribs. You should be terrified.

“Hell d’you think you’re doing?” He snarls, his voice low.

The fear doesn’t manifest, your limbs aren’t leaden. Arousal quickens in your core instead and you flush with excitement. He feels it somehow, gives you a searching look, and makes a decision.

In the raucous din, a man dragging a woman towards a dark corner is inconsequential. He maneuvers you bodily into a dark hallway, his hold on you unshakeable. He shoves you against a wall, pinning you there with his arm like an iron bar, and jabs the gun under your chin.

“I’m askin’ you again, what the hell are you doin’?” Up close you can see better the fraying of his civility. He makes no efforts to hide it, or present himself. He’s bathed recently, you can smell the lye on him, and the lavender that Saints Hotel provides its guests. But there’s whiskey on his breath, and tobacco stains on his teeth and fingers. “You know I’m no preacher. Don’t tell me you had your hand in my bag looking for a bible.”

“I know. Just buyin you a drink, Mr. Morgan, no need to get sour about it. Just…” you touch his shoulder gently, trail your fingers down his chest. “just bein friendly.”

He grumbles, holsters his pistol, but doesn’t allow you any leeway. If anything, he presses closer, nudging your legs apart with his knee. “Y’know I’ve shot people for a lot less.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

Tense promise hangs between the two of you, He could have shot you. Could turn you in to the sheriff, or walk away or shake you down.

Or fuck you, right here, up against this wall. 

You grab his neckerchief and tug it to bring him closer. He frowns, and then relents, kissing you at first with surprising tenderness, forgetting himself in a soft moan. Everything else about him is hard and coarse, though. You can feel the ridge of his erection even through all the layers of clothing, and his beard is scratchy as he moves to kiss your jaw and neck.

Carnality surges in him once more. “Get your skirt up,” he growls against your skin, and when you obey, one of his hands drops, drawing his fingers through your wet slit. Anyone could walk back here and get an eyeful but at the moment you don’t particularly care. He pushes one finger into you, then a second, curls them with his palm on your clit.

You raise your hips, trying to grind on his hand and he chuckles.

“You got a sweet, tight little cunt, don’t you?” With his free hand he yanks the fabric of your blouse down, grabs your exposed breasts roughly. You mewl, clutching at his shoulders. Desire rises in you fast and fierce.

“You’re gonna scream real loud when I fuck you, ain’t that right? I can tell.”

You nod urgently, and he pulls away just enough to undo his trousers, hitch your leg up, and align his cock with your slick entrance. His breathing is ragged as he pushes in, slowly only because the angle is strange, and you’re tight and he’s big. He starts moving, shallow thrusts at first. But he’s impatient, and unconcerned with being gentle.  
He lifts your other leg and you wrap them around his waist, sinking all the way onto his thick length.

“That’s my good girl,” he groans, stilling for a moment so he can adjust, holding you up, one hand underneath each of your thighs, skin on skin. “That’s my good girl,” he repeats, drawing out and thrusting back in.

You bounce with his rhythm, supported at your back by the wall, clinging to his broad shoulders, and he uses you rough and fast. Not like you should’ve expected any different, and you taste the lingering whiskey when he captures your mouth, hot and desperate and searching. He wants softness, you think. Physical and otherwise, and he’s lived rough for so long he doesn’t know how to treat it delicately when he finds it. 

Which is fine by you. 

“Arthur…” you break the kiss, needing more, needing to tell him how goddamn _good_ he feels.

He slows briefly, rolling his hips and grunting that if you want to take your pleasure you’d better be quick about it. Snaking a hand down, you find that slick, sensitive flesh, rubbing in tight little circles.

At your pleading whimper he picks up a vicious pace. He drives into you, sure and solid, filling you with every stroke. This intimacy thrills you, as it is furtive and unexpected, and the hallways is ambient with the sounds of his low moans and whispered obscenities about your virtue, the rustle of clothing and the _pat_ of flesh on flesh. 

Pleasure builds to something nearly tangible, radiating from your core out to every limb. Overstretched and oversensitized, you peak, gasping his name, grabbing at his hair, his neck, his shoulder. 

He buries his face in your neck as he feels you clench and spasm around him and speeds up and with his pursuit of release your perceive the years of neglect and privation which coalesce to his singular, raw need. He seems to devour you, taking in the slow, dying waves of your climax and riding it himself, pumping you. Each stroke grows slicker and slower until he stalls and remembers he’s supposed to be stoic. 

He lets you down, tucks himself away, and takes his time checking that his pistol and other personal effects are in place. It’s a small gesture, allowing you the dignity to make yourself decent again without him leering. 

Blouse and skirt in place, and your thighs sticky, you smooth your hair. You’ll have to find someone else more gullible than Arthur Morgan if you want to make any money today.

He clears his throat, and you fear he might be vindictive and make good on any one of his earlier threats. “Miss. Before you go, I have a proposal you might consider.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t believe you’re so clumsy as to get caught by the likes of me.” He coughs again. “That is to say, you’re good at what you do, and, well, if you can do your fair share, there’s a group of us up in the foothills. Could use someone like you for times we need to charm.” 

He gives you a lopsided smile before adding, “don’t even need to tell me your real name, in fact. Whaddya say?”


End file.
